And as we wind on down the road
by irnan
Summary: Well, trudge, actually. Stagger, even. Two days spent locked in a cage do strange things to your legs. And you're not on the road either, but ankle deep in real Minnesota mud. - coda to "Benders"


_Sue me? Why, what __do you think you'll get out of it__? My __criminal law textbooks? Honestly._

**And as we wind on down the road**

Trudging through the pitch dark, muddy, wet and _freezing_ cold Minnesota woods at two a.m. after having been kept in a cramped cage like an animal for the last two days has just reached Number One on your list of Things No Amount Of Brotherly Cajoling Orders From Dad Or Demonic Threats Will Ever Make Sam Winchester Do Again.

Apparently, Dean feels the same way.

"I hate people," he says irritably. "All people. Especially the crazy other-people-hunting Texas Chainsaw Massacre wannabes. Why couldn't it have been a ghost, or a phantom attacker, or some – other _thing_?"

You look across at him, trying not to laugh. He sounds so grumpy, and tired, like a little boy up after his bedtime. Then you notice the way he's holding his right arm, and a shiver of worry runs through you. Crouching behind a tree in the mud watching the squad cars race past is not doing his injuries any good. Perhaps you should have let him charm Kathleen into letting you take a car back into town.

"I don't see how that would make any difference to our current situation," you say, determined to take his mind off the pain, casting about for a way to help him. No, nothing comes to mind, except getting back to town as fast as possible.

"If it had been one of our usual playmates, do you really think she'd have called for backup? No friggin' way. She'd have driven us back into town and tried to forget about the whole business."

"Yeah, maybe. Think that was the last one… let's get going."

You pull yourself to your feet with a muffled groan. After nearly two days trapped in that little cage you're just as stiff and sore as you were that time at Pastor Jim's when Dad decided you should help rebuild the garage after that demon attacked. (You'd protested, but Dad had been adamant. The fact that Dean had been the one who'd actually kicked the ball through the window and thus interrupted the exorcism just hadn't been enough to stop Dad from putting you on the forced labour crew as well. The bloody tyrant.)

"Sammy? You OK?"

Three months ago, you would have brushed his worried question off with a brusque "It's Sam"; these days, you don't mind it anymore. You know exactly when it changed, to the day, hell the second: _there's nothing we can do,_ the doctor said, and the thought that Dean would soon never call you anything again cut through you like a knife, and now you feel a surge of relief every time he uses that nickname. _I'm still Sammy. __Dean's still here._

How in the hell does he just turn _himself_ off like that to enquire anxiously about _you_ anyway?

"I'm just stiff," you explain. He nods, tightly, and lets you help him up. Uh-oh. Dean Winchester never lets anyone do that unless it's really bad. Then you look at him more closely, and realise the wound isn't the problem, or at least not all the problem. The hollows under his eyes are. It hits you like a ton of bricks that he hasn't slept since you went missing. The idiot. The selfless overprotective idiot. Right, back to town, as fast as possible.

Much as you try, it's impossible not to let your mind drift back over the last two days. When you were little, you thought human beings were automatically good, and only the supernatural things in the dark were evil. Your first encounter with a schoolyard bully quickly disabused you of that notion, but you've still never met any people as utterly evil as that family.

You remember the rush of fear and fury that flooded you as Lee – or was it Jarod? – came in with the shotgun. The realisation that they'd caught Dean, maybe even killed him, was all you needed to find the strength to fight them. You can't ever remember having enjoyed punching someone that much. Well, there was David Lewis in high school, but other than that…

As for that girl, standing over him with the knife at his eye like that, relishing the fear on Dean's face that he was trying to hide, well, you would have had no compunction about breaking her neck at that moment. Dean's faced the prospect of his own death more than once and been totally unafraid, but long ago he had admitted to you that being maimed like that was one of the few things he really was afraid of. To be alive, but to be, in Dean's own words, utterly useless, unable to do the job he loved, that would have destroyed him from the inside out.

Dean interrupts your thoughts by suddenly asking, "Why'd you leave her alone with him?"

"What? Who?" For a moment, you really don't know what he means. Preoccupied as you are, that sadistic little bitch is the only 'she' that comes to mind.

"Kathleen. Why did you leave her alone with Pa Bender like that? You wouldn't let me kill Le Grange or Max, but you must have known what she'd do." Not judgmental, just curious. It takes quite a lot for Dean to get judgmental with you. The two of you fight all the time, sometimes more but usually anything but seriously. The only thing that can really drive a wedge between you is Dad.

"Bender? Think they're descendants?" you tease, otherwise at a loss for words. It's the truth, after all, there was no mistaking the look in her eyes as she held the gun on the man.

"Anything's possible. Now answer the question," Dean grouses, too tired to banter with you, to dodge the issue.

For long moments, you walk – well, stagger – in silence, contemplating your own hypocrisy. Then the answer comes to you, blindingly obvious, ridiculously simple.

"He killed her brother," you say.

Slowly, with a long-drawn-out sigh, Dean relaxes against you, letting you support him more fully, trusting you to take his weight.

"Yeah, he did," he says quietly.


End file.
